Excerpts from the Authors' Plays

From Iphigenia Crash Land Falls on the Neon Shell That Was Once Her Heart
(a rave fable) by Caridad Svich.

(A view from the camera. Iphigenia remains. She is both live and on the screen.)

IPHIGENIA: Crash.
I am not cut, but I am bleeding.
There is black sand on my feet, but no water.
Only the sound of waves rushing.
I am standing.
I have wings.
They grow out of my shoulder blades
Out of the veil of the TV screen.
I am not cut, but I am bleeding.

Crash.
I remember falling,
Kissing
Through the garden,
To the neon lights on the street,
Splitting me into threads of skin.
Wings lift me.
I am moving.
I am at the edge of the city.
I am atop the aircraft hangar and its beams of green.
Boys, girls, and a million vacant eyes.
Look at me.

I stand on the metal ledge.
Black liquid sand slipping off my skin.
The story has been told again.
A wreath has been placed upon Iphigenia's head.
Crash.
Every part of me is breaking.
But I'm all right.
Give me your hands.
Give me your hands,
Cause you're wonderful.

* * *

From Kawaisoo (The Pity of Things) by Jason Grote.

(A 24-hour grocery store in an affluent suburb. Fall 2001, approximately 2 A.M.)

ELLIE: Michael, the banality of this place is exactly the quality that makes it holy. Can I—I know that this is not the appropriate time to dwell on such things, but when I first got the news—the first news, you and the slut, not this news—I came here—not for any therapeutic reason, you understand, but because we needed groceries—and found enormous comfort, enormous stability. I have grown fond of it. Sometimes I think that's why it's really open 24 hours, because it needs a time to be a cathedral. The housewives and the screaming kids leave and it gets to become what it truly is. Please be respectful, Michael. I know how laughable I am.

I'd like to start in aisle six. That's my favorite place, right between the Surf with Active Oxygen and the abrasive Tweety Bird heads.
Before I start the tour, I'd like to point out some general characteristics. First, the gentle hum of the fluorescents. Notice how they're not too bright, not blinding, don't make you feel like a deer. The floors: earth tones, allowing one to avoid noticing the inevitable grime that accumulates on lighter shades of linoleum. The products: all faced. That's an industry term, faced. It means they're all even, symmetrical, soothing, not strewn chaotically all over our—all over the shelves. The music:

Hall and Oates. Can't win them all, I suppose. Still, it beats orchestrated string versions of "American Woman," or an endless loop of early Whitney Houston singles.

My point, Michael, is: I am well aware of the criticisms that you and others put forth, that my perfect little world here is in fact predictable and artificial, and inescapable, that it spreads its monocultural virus throughout the world, but I hold that these critics have not paid attention to the subtle, all-important differences that class and geography provide.

When I go into the poor supermarket—the one down Route 33, with the limited produce selections and the gray meat and the dingy floors—I start to—I can't breathe, it's so—it's horrible, I know, you would be—you must be so ashamed, I know that poor people need a place to shop too, but—well, I'm sure it's not pleasant for them, either—the no-frills products? Have you seen these? Plain white boxes with the product names stamped on? BEANS. CORN CEREAL. It makes me so sad, so acutely aware of the fragility of human life. I [End...